


homecoming challenged the best of us, kid

by spiderboyneedsahug



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Adrien Toomes is a dick to children, Even Tony Stark trembles before the wrath of Aunt May, He hasn't been this scared of anyone since Pepper, Hurt Peter Parker, If you think Peter was funny before this wait 'till you see him high as a freakin kite on meds, It's not as funny as it is a learning experience for Tony, May is going to ground Peter for 1000+ years for this one, May isn't happy, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is an innocent child who needs to be wrapped in a blanket and be told that he's loved, Peter blames himself for everything and it makes people sad, Peter really misses Unce Ben, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is such a dad to Peter that it hurts, Tony can't lie convincingly to May because that woman is terrifying, dad tony stark, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-04-19 21:12:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderboyneedsahug/pseuds/spiderboyneedsahug
Summary: Riding out a plane crash? Piece of cake.Navigating through fires? Easy enough.Avoiding the shrapnel launched from the close range explosion of a very mechanical, very metal pair of wings?Not so easy.Or, Peter didn't get off so easy when Toomes' wings exploded and Tony Stark has a few things to say about this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is... kind of... my first work for the Marvel fandom. I could have chosen any movie, but Peter Parker is such a sweetheart that I couldn't help but write for him <3
> 
> So naturally, I'll strike there. Strike while the iron is hot, they say. Or, strike while the softest child in the MCU miraculously escapes multiple injuries where he should have been injured.

“What do you mean _the plane went down_ , I very specifically requested that the plane was _not_ to go down. I put you on this for a damned good reason, Happy, and I’m starting to think that you weren’t ready for-”

 

He saw flames. Vague, pixelated images of his tech, sprawled across the sands.

_“Tony, if you could shut the fuck up and listen to me for one goddamned second-”_

More headlines with the Stark title, and the crushing tension of stress sat on his chest.

 

“Wait, wait, hold- hold on, did you just tell me to shut up? Me? Tony Stark? Y’know, the guy who employed you to do this very big, very dangerous task and you’ve messed up, big time? As in, you’ve really screwed the pooch. This is why I don’t do big things, Happy, because the plane should have never gone down-”

 

Fuck, not _again_ , he can’t have more of his tech, his weapons, in the hands of people who would kill others without hesitation.

_“TONY, listen!”_

He stopped here, finally taking time to listen.

“This had better be really fucking good, Happy, as in _this is a huge prank and you got news stations involved, how funny_ good, because then there’s a slight chance that I might not fire your ass right now-”

_“Tony, I’m at Coney Island now. The tech is all still there, undamaged. I think the kid stopped it.”_

“The kid? As in, the kid whose suit I took away for being an idiot? The kid as in Peter Parker?”

_“Yes, Tony, the kid. I- I can’t see him.”_

 

Tony paused in his rant, hands rested in his ruffled hair. The screen in front of him was only good enough to show him that the plane had gone down and _shit_ , there was a lot of fire on the island. The chances that his tech would wind up in someone else’s hands were astronomically high and paranoia was starting to lick at his stomach.

“Please tell me you’re joking.” The kid was on that island, somewhere, without proper protection and with a psychopathic criminal on the loose. The lack of a response through the line was an answer enough and his words from earlier drifted back to him.

 

 _What if somebody had died tonight?_ A possibility that was becoming startlingly real. But… not a civilian. The kid. The kid who he was responsible for. _His_ kid.

“FRIDAY, Mark 6 suit, _now_!” The suit embraced him quickly, display glowing to life around him.

 _“I- I’m not. I can’t find the kid or the guy with the wings.”_ Came Happy’s voice through the wall speaker. Tony cursed. Peter was missing, the guy with the wings was missing, his stuff was everywhere… The flames continued to flicker on the holographic screen in front of him and Peter’s safety was continuing to become a pressing matter in Tony’s mind.

 

 _And if you died… I feel like that’s on me._ If Peter died… it _would_ be on him. _He_ brought Peter into this in Germany. He introduced a  _child_ into an even more dangerous lifestyle. His throat grew tight as worry slammed into him full force. Peter was his kid… who could be hurt, dying, _dead_.

“Hold down the fort, I’m on my way. Don’t even think about letting the guy with the wings go if you find him. I’d like to kick your asses together if possible.”

 _“Y-Yeah. I’m on it. No signs of either of them yet, but I’ll keep you updated.”_ Happy said, concern vaguely palpable, and Tony shot out of the building towards Coney Island. Buildings and water blurred into a mess of colours and he kept going, faster faster _faster_.

 

 _If you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it._ He was such a goddamn hypocrite. Tony was the one who needs the suit to be the hero. Peter- Peter had been doing the hero thing long before Tony’s suit came onto the scene.

 

Flames, orange against tan. Sands. Coney Island.

 

Tony touched down on the sand, eyes raking over the scene. His cargo was scattered over the ground, but safe. The display in front of him confirmed it -- everything was there and accounted for. Except for Peter. Happy ran over.

“Boss, the cargo’s all safe, mostly undamaged even. The kid- He did good.”

“You can tell that to him yourself. Help me find him so I can save him and sic his Aunt on him later.”

Happy’s smile was crooked, as if he was unused to such an expression, “Sure thing, boss.” He was just starting to walk away when the Tony raised his hand.

“Wait, hold on Happy. We gotta search for the guy with the wings. The Spiderling would have our heads if we let him go now.”

Happy nodded sharply, “Yeah. I want to get my hands on that guy.”

“Me too. Seriously, we’re gonna be so set back now…” Tony ranted, taking low flight to survey the area. The telltale red of Peter’s makeshift onesie was still hidden, obscured hopefully by something that wasn’t fire, wreckage, cargo or shrapnel.

 

However, someone else was visible.

 

Tony dropped to the floor besides the man, staring at the scratched and bloodied face. Guessing from the destroyed remains of what looked like what was once wings, Tony had his guy. The man struggled weakly against the bonds holding his limbs to his body, and it was then that Tony saw it was too white to be rope. It had to be webbing, which meant Peter had been there.

“Hey, you there.” FRIDAY sent up information about the man onto his monitors. “Mr. Toomes, huh? So you’re responsible for the hijacking then?”

The man coughed harshly, and nodded, almost proudly. Tony scowled at the downed man.

“You’re going to go behind bars, Toomes. Probably for a long time. Or at least I hope you get put away for a long time.”

The man shook his head and growled a laugh, “We’ll see, Stark.”

“Anyways, you seen a kid around here? ‘Bout yea high, wearing a onesie, goes by Spider-Man?”

The man coughed, a dark smile suddenly visible on his face, “You mean Peter?”

 

Tony froze, the blood in his veins turning to dry ice. “You know him?”  
“Yeah. Pete’s a good kid. Little anxious, but other than that he seems okay. Shame he got in my way.” Toomes spat, expression one of murderous rage, before it calmed back into something blank, if not amused. Tony frowned and let his faceplate rise up. The smoke was acrid and he choked on it almost immediately, but soon got used to the smell.

“And this is, what, meant to make me think you hurt him? Killed him? Sorry, buddy, but I think he caught you.”

“Yeah, catch me he did. He’s really a good kid, he pulled me out of the fires, even after my wings exploded! He was raised well, saving the bad guy despite it all.”

“D’you happen to see where he went off to? I’d like for him to see you get put away for a couple’a decades.”

“Why should I help you, Stark?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Spare your daughter the shame of seeing her dad on national television, going down as a murderous criminal, in front of all her friends and peers?” Tony suggested slowly, watching Toomes’ face shift from angry to contemplative to blank again.

“The brat limped off after my wings exploded.”

“Where to?”

“That’s as much as I’ll say, Stark.” Toomes spat, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to rest on the sand.

Tony sighed, “Some help you are.”

 

It was then he noticed the jagged metal shards impaling the sand. All sharp, maybe the length of his hand or larger. The wings, Toomes said the wings had exploded and Peter had dragged his sorry ass out of the fires.

For Peter to have been close enough to save Toomes -

“He would have been well within the range of the shrapnel-! Happy, over here _now_!” He barked. His heart was pounding a mile a second in his chest and images flashed behind his eyelids. Not shrapnel, not shrapnel in his goddamn kid. There’s no way that Peter could have shrapnel in him, because that would put him in mortal danger of having an arc reactor shoved into his chest cavity-

“Tony, calm down! Panicking like this won’t help the kid at all!” Those were Happy’s hands on his shoulders, shaking the armour although it was a futile endeavour. But it shook him back to reality.

The faceplate of the armour snapped back down. “Call a med team, I want them waiting at my call. And keep an eye on this fucker, I’m finding my kid.” And up he went. The tail end of the plane was still sticking up and the fires still raged, but the desperation welling up in his chest was greater, and _fuck_ , if Peter bled out alone on a beach, unrecognised and abandoned, Tony didn’t know what he’d do.

 

“Fuck it. FRIDAY, switch to thermal. I need to be able to see this kid’s ass before I save him, then kill him.” There was a lot of orange-red glowing from the fires on the beach, but that wasn’t what caught his eyes. What caught his eyes was the small blob of blue-green on the screen. Something cooler than everything around it. Tony shot over to the lump and stepped out of the suit.

 

Red.

 

So, _so_ much red.

 

Red suit, red fires, red, painfully red blood, blood that shouldn’t have been spilled. Torn red hoodie on the slumped over form of Spider-Man, of Peter, and Tony dropped to his knees. The kid was still breathing -- thank god -- but his eyes were closed. Upon inspection of his pulse, Tony found it to be thready and shallow, which meant Peter was already running out of time. His eyes widened almost painfully.

 

Swallowing hard, Tony dared to speak, “Peter?”

 

It came out as nothing more than a whisper.

 

No response.

 

Blood was dried brown -- brown like his ruffled hair -- in the sand, forming gritty lumps of too young blood that should never have been spilled, god, this was _his_ fault-

 

He rolled the kid off of his side and onto his back and hissed in faux-agony at the sight of the three metal spikes poking out of Peter.

 

Right leg, left arm, central lower abdomen. First two treatable but painful, the third an immediate threat. Blood stained most of the red hoodie from the lowest ribs downwards, dyeing it a darker colour, and the metal in Peter’s bicep faintly poked out the other side. Tony swallowed back the burning in his throat in favour of tapping a hand against the teen’s clammy cheek. Peter’s eyebrows drew inwards and his eyelids twitched, slowly pulling open to reveal dazed eyes.

His mouth barely moved when he spoke quietly, “Mr. St’rk…?”

There was blood staining Peter’s teeth. “Happy, med team! Now!”

 

Tony looked back down at his charge, his kid who was _bleeding out under his hands_. At least the shrapnel- no, not shrapnel. Metal. At least the metal was acting as a plug of sorts, which in itself was a mild help in the otherwise harrowing situation, but Tony couldn’t staunch the blood flow any further without seriously jeopardising the relative calm.

He watched Peter try to blink awake before he gave up, letting his head smack into the sand again, “Stay down, kid. You’re- You’re hurt pretty bad, moving will make it worse.”

“S’e ok?” Peter rasped, eyes painfully young and oh-too innocent for someone who had seen so much _evil_ in the world.

Tony blinked, “Hmm?”

“Toomes. The- the wing guy. He okay?”

“What- yes, he’s fine. You, however, are not, and you’re staying here until I can get you medevac or something.”

“Oh- oh. ‘Kay.” Peter’s eyes fluttered closed and a flare of panic shot into Tony’s throat.

“No, no, no! Kid, don’t go to sleep! That’s bad, don’t do it.”

“S-sorry.” The kid mumbled tiredly, eyes locked onto a flame as it flickered and danced in the wind.

 

The lack of energy in the kid concerned Tony to a point where he was close to losing his damned mind -- Peter had always been talkative and energetic, even after he got swatted out of the sky by the Giant Man (he checked the files, the name _Ant-Man_ didn’t seem to fit after _that_ ) and was obviously hurt. But now? Silence reigned supreme. Peter didn’t so much as move asides from the occasional blink and his shuddering breaths, didn’t so much as try to lift one of his sprawled limbs.

 

“Tony, we got a problem!” Tony looked up from Peter’s dazed face to Happy’s. The sense of urgency written there roused Tony’s attention completely.

“Did Toomes get away? What’s up?" Happy seemed to flounder, desperate to find an answer that would appease Tony's panic. "Damn it, hurry up and tell me!”

Happy took a breath, “Medevac can’t get here within the next hour, the roads are blocked up and the smoke is too dangerous to navigate via air. Even if medevac could get here via air, there’s nowhere to land between the fires, the rubble and the cargo.”

Tony looked from Happy to Peter, noting how the teen’s complexion had _somehow_ faded even further from a ghostly pale to a dying gray, and he made up his mind.

“Fuck it. Call off the medevac, I’ll fly him to the compound myself.” Tony stood and brushed sand off his knees before letting the Mark 6 envelop him again. Happy opened his mouth, as if to protest, but a sharp look from Tony seemed to shut him up quickly.

“Kid? Can you hear me?”

Peter’s head tilted back slightly in affirmation, eyes still open, and although still dazed Tony could tell that the kid had understood him.

“We’re gonna take you back to the New Avengers compound, okay? We’ll take care of you there. Happy will take care of Toomes.”

Peter only hummed in response, not moving but closing his eyes. With a heavy sigh, Tony dropped to his knees.

“Kid-.” The teen turned his head and cracked one eye open, “This is gonna hurt.”

Voice hoarse, Peter managed to whisper, “S’ok, Mr Stark. I’ll be fine.”

 

Tony wormed his metal-clad fingers under Peter’s torso, trying to ignore the way the he squirmed in discomfort. Then Tony lifted a little to make more room for his hands, and the choked off groans spilling from Peter’s lips escalated into hoarse yells, and then whimpers. His chest ached at the prospect of his charge having to go through so much pain because- because Tony underestimated him. Hell, everyone underestimated him and told him to leave it be, and because of that he stuck his heels in deeper.

 

His palms were under Peter when the thrashing started.

 

Small whines and soft pleas were escaping the kid’s mouth and it killed Tony to know that he was causing Peter so much harm in the search for care. The slight movements of Peter’s abdomen must have been agony, Tony realised with a sad frown. He continued to lift the too-light child into his arms, more careful to avoid shifting the metal lodged in Peter’s stomach. Peter’s flailing only got worse as his expression became pinched and he struggled to push away from Tony’s arms, Peter’s good arm’s shaking fingers failing to push his broken body away.

 

Peter’s face was pale, his cheeks flushed and his expression was pinched as if he was expecting to be hurt, which in turn made _Tony_ hurt, because it was _him_ who screwed the pooch; he was the one who messed up. It was his fault that the bloody, wheezing _child_ in his arms was bleeding out, it was his fault that there was a chance this kid wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to his Aunt, his friend, his loved ones.

 

Tony shook his head violently. He couldn’t let those thoughts dig their claws in.

 

He wriggled Peter slowly into a pseudo-bridal carry and made sure he was secured in his arms before letting the suit come off the ground, and shooting off in the direction of the New Avengers compound.

* * *

  
It was five minutes and two miles into the journey that Peter started mumbling again. It was just fragments, broken remains of semi-coherent thoughts, but it was more than enough to rouse worry. Despite having been thrice impaled, the kid was still a (slightly alarming) beacon of strength -- as little as he moved, he _was_ still awake against the odds. Eyes foggy, Peter had looked to up at Tony as if seeing a different person, and he had spoken mumbles that sounded suspiciously like ‘dad’.

 

Tony ignored them.

 

He did not deserve that title, even if the kid was half-out of his mind from blood loss, fever and unavoidable wind chill.

 

He could feel Peter shivering.

 

“FRIDAY, heat up the outside of the armour, will you?” The female AI didn’t respond, but by the way that Peter breathed out softly, she had done her job. He could feel Peter shift in his arms, attempting to find a comfortable resting position, before the movement stopped again and he heard a small, quiet groan.

“You awake down there, Spiderling?”

A few seconds passed, “Spider-Man.” Came Peter’s voice; weary, beaten and gravelly, but Peter’s.

Tony chuckled lightly, “You okay?”

“No. Feel like… Did I get hit by a truck?” More shifting, this time punctuated by a groan and the movement of an arm.

“Just about.” Tony deadpanned. Except it wasn't a truck, it was a plane crash and a close-range explosion, but Peter really didn't need any extra distress.

“M’kay. G’night.”

Tony was about to sharply reprimand Peter when FRIDAY spoke up, “Sir, his vitals are declining.”

“Shit. Peter, don’t fall asleep? If you fall asleep you won’t be able to see your Aunt.”

“May? I wanna- M’kay, Mr. St’rk.”

“Good. FRIDAY, divert all power from anything unnecessary.” The display in front of Tony darkened, all features besides the route dropping away into nothing. A few more minutes passed quietly, the shuddering wheezes from below him a deathly clock of every second passing away, before he spoke up again.

“ETA five minutes, kid. You with me?”

 

No response.

 

Tony’s heart pounded in his chest and his fingertips tingled with the telltale prickling of anxiety.

“Pete?”

“He’s unconscious, boss. Time is of critical importance.” Tony was grateful for FRIDAY’s lack of detail on the matter -- if he knew exactly what was wrong with Peter and how much danger he was in, he’d give himself a heart attack from the stress. Just knowing that Peter was in harm’s way more than before was incentive enough for him to push the suit to its limits and beyond.

 

Tony swerved sharply and pushed to go faster, ignoring the way Peter’s neck held his head limp, almost as if boneless, and knocked slightly into the armour as he turned. Tony pretended not to see the crusted-brown blood dried under the kid’s fingernails and the thicker, fire-truck red blood in the calluses of his palms.

 

He was dialling Rhodey before he could consciously register it.

 

“Rhodey?”

“Tony? Do you even know what time it is? What’s wrong?” Rhodey’s voice was bleary, as if he had just woken up. Tony felt a twinge of regret pulse through him -- Rhodey was probably recovering from another bout of demanding physical therapy, and Tony had woken him up, but it was drowned out by the concern racing through him.

“Look, you’re at the compound, right?” Dumb question. Rhodey’s PT was always at the compound, and he always crashed there afterwards.

“Yeah, why?”

“I need you to get a med team to meet me out the front of the compound, okay?”

There was a pause in the line, then, “Wait, what- A med team? What did you do?”

“There’s no time for that, just- please get a med team and tell them- tell them to prepare an OR. I’m bringing someone in, he’s in- he’s in critical condition.”

“What the hell-” Rhodey’s voice faded out, as if he had moved elsewhere, and it was quiet for a few minutes before the phone crackled and the line picked back up.

“Right, Tony, I’ve got the med team and they’re on their way to the front of the compound, now _what the hell_?! This better not have anything to do with your plane crash.” He hissed into the line.

“The kid, the kid I brought with me to the Accords? It’s him.”

“The Spider kid? What about him?”

“He got hurt. He- He stopped the plane from being hijacked and he fought off the guy behind it, but he got hurt. It’s- He got hurt by-”

“Well? Tony, spit it out! If I tell the team what they’re dealing with it’ll be better for him!”

“ _Shrapnel_ , Rhodey! It’s _shrapnel_ , there’s three hunks of it sticking out of him like he’s some messed up pin-cushion and I’m losing it here because- he won’t wake up. He’s not waking up and it’s my fault.”

 

It didn’t feel better to get off his chest. The pressure there increased as soon as the New Avengers compound came into view and he started his descent towards the front of the imposing building.

 

Rhodey’s voice came through the line again, clear and crisp as a winter’s day, “Waiting on you now, Tony. They know about it and they’re prepared to deal with it. It’s not your fault.”

 

Tony didn’t respond.

 

Instead, he slowed down as he approached the ground, made sure his legs were stable below him and touched down on solid earth again. Peter didn’t move. He didn’t move, even as he was gently taken from Tony’s arms and deposited onto the gurney. He didn’t even make a sound, and Tony’s heart sunk a little further into his chest. One of the medical staff, one who had treated Peter before, Tony recognised, looked at him with an indiscernible expression on their face before they rushed Peter into the building.

 

Tony looked down at his chest, at Peter’s blood on his chest, before he stepped out of the suit.

“FRIDAY, when the Mark 6 gets back, can you put a reminder in my personal schedule to clean the suit?”

“Already done, boss.” FRIDAY replied without any inflection to feeling in her voice. Tony sighed -- at least JARVIS would have had some nigh-on undetectable undertone of _something_ in his voice. FRIDAY didn’t have that.

 

Tony walked inside the compound, ignoring how his footsteps echoed around the building, and moved towards the room he knew to be his among all the others.

 

The first thing he did was wash Peter’s blood from his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's alive!
> 
> And very, very high on very, very strong painkillers.
> 
> Lord, let Tony endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back already? This is weird, especially for me, the procrastinator. 
> 
> Just kidding -- it was the comments from all of you that threw me back here so quickly. I've never had such positive responses on a fic!
> 
> Hope you enjoy a worried Tony, an anxious May and a very (veeery) high Peter.

The white of the waiting room was offensive to Tony’s tired eyes. The light reflected off the floors and walls too brightly and it scorched impressions into his retinas. Now, usually he would have just worn some shades to counteract the clinical light, but they were all back in his room, alongside his sandy and bloody clothes from before. FRIDAY had sent him a message, maybe half an hour ago, telling him the Mark 6 suit was clean — it was nice to know that the next time he wore the suit, it wouldn't be doused in his kid's blood. He ignored FRIDAY's message in favour of drinking the dishwasher coffee he made before he left his room and came down to the medical wing.

 

He wasn’t going back in there until he knew Peter was safe.

 

After he had showered the grime off of his body and changed into something more comfortable — an AC/DC shirt and a pair of jeans — he had immediately headed down to the medical wing, anxiety churning in his stomach and heart heavy with concern.

 

It had been a few hours now, and there had still been no word on Peter’s condition. Tony had to beat away the occasional intrusive thought telling him that _if they lose Peter it’s your fault, you’re going to have to face his Aunt and you know you deserve what you get from her_ , but otherwise was trapped in his own relative calm — unnatural calm. Just a few hours ago, he was drowning in Peter’s blood and his own shrapnel-induced anxiety.

 

He thought he was in shock. He probably was. He kept staring ahead at the painfully white walls, refusing to let himself blink more often than necessary. If he blinked too much, the dangerously watery state of his eyes could become something he couldn't ignore. It burned to keep doing it, but he forced himself to — a reminder that any suffering he was going through was incomparable to what his inaction had done to Peter. What  _he_ had done to Peter. 

He had spoken to Happy, who had informed him of Toomes’ collection by the authorities under heavy guard — news to which a scarily strong wave of satisfaction rolled through him — and contemplated phoning May. She deserved to know where her nephew was, even if he did have to cover up the kid’s alter ego and make a cover story for why the kid was suddenly so injured. She deserved to know that her kid was as beat up and injured as he was. And she deserved to know that Tony played a hand in his state himself.

 

His phone was in his hand quickly, dialling the number FRIDAY said was May’s. The phone rung for a few minutes, then, “Hello? Who is this?”

She sounded harried, rushed off her feet. Must have just gotten back from work.

 

He licked his lips, “Hi. This is Tony Stark?” His hands were shaking. They were small trembles, nearly impossible for him to see through anything but the phone he held, but as the adrenaline and determination faded away, anxiety and worry, heavy, nauseating _worry_ were setting in fast. 

 

“Tony Stark?" May mumbled through the phone. Her voice held a note of question before she snapped back to herself, "Right, _that_ Tony Stark, the internship Stark- Wait, how did you get my number?” She sounded incredulous, though slightly out of breath. Tony heard the faint whine of a dishwasher in the background noise of the call.

“My AI pulled it up.”

“Right. I saw on the news that your plane crashed on Coney Island, is this about that? Ah- actually, if you've got Peter's number, could you tell him to pick up his damn phone?” He could hear the parental concern in May's voice and his throat tightened a little. He coughed. 

“Uh- It’s about the Stark Internship- for Peter?”

“You mean the internship Peter said he lost, right?” May deadpanned. Tony gulped; Peter must have made something up for his Aunt when he lost the suit. That made his job much harder.

“Miscommunication.” He blurted, “He didn’t lose it, as such, we just had to, uh, re-evaluate a few things. We’ve been going through things again and, great news, he got the internship back! He’s in the New Avengers Compound with me now, doing- intern things.”

“Right.” She didn’t sound like she was buying it. “So what’s up? Is Pete okay? I've tried calling him a few times, but he isn't picking up.”

“Yeah, Peter’s-” He looked down the hall where he knew Peter was, under the knife and full of holes, full of _shrapnel_ that shouldn’t have been there. _This was his fault_ -

“Peter’s fine. We did hit a little snag earlier on, moving some-” He thought of Peter’s injuries, and how he could explain _those_ , “-boxes of tech around the compound. His phone got broken underneath one of them, but that's fine because I can replace it.” 

It was only after he made the offer to replace Peter's — frankly terrible, outdated — phone that he realised it wasn't out of kindness, or generosity, or any of the things May probably suspected. It was guilt, guilt because he didn't pick up when the kid called. 

 

 _They say there's a correlation between generosity and_ _guilt_.

 

He wouldn't let that happen again.

 

“That would be very nice of you, Mr. Stark, and I bet Peter will take you up on that offer, but is he okay? He hasn’t hurt himself, has he? If he’s hurt himself-”

“Peter’s fine, don’t worry. A couple of boxes fell on him earlier, but- he’s okay now,” Tony coughed at the lie, rubbing at his throat, “he’s just sleeping off a headache and some scratches in the infirmary.”

Tony could hear rattling and the telltale crackle of movement down the line before May spoke again, “Do I need to come down there?”

 

Tony thought about it. With Peter's healing factor and the skill of the medical team working on him, by the time May got there Peter would be able to pull off the  _crushed under boxes_ look instead of looking like he had barely survived the plane crash. 

“I can send you someone to pick you up in two hours, if you'd like?” Two hours, and then whatever time it took for May to actually arrive there. Maybe there  _was_ a chance both Peter and Tony would be able to escape the wrath of Aunt May — she seemed like one of those people that Tony wouldn't take any chances with annoying, much like Pepper used to be. He had decided almost instantly that he didn't want to annoy her.

May hummed, deep in thought, before answering again, “I'll take you up on that offer. I want to see my nephew.” Tony nodded.

"I'll have you here as soon as possible." He heard May hum in agreement before the line clicked dead, and he was forced to go back to the silence of the waiting room.

Given the state of almost-abandonment the New Avengers compound had been in since the Accords, nobody else was in the room with him. The gray-cushioned chairs were absent of all life, the silence in the room almost deafening. 

 

The lifelessness of his mistakes — the Accords,  _this_  — seemed all too happy to invade his thoughts as he waited.

 

* * *

 

It was another half hour before someone came from the hallway to get Tony.

"Is he okay?" Were the first words out of his mouth. The worry that had been gathering on his chest since he handed off Peter had crawled into his throat, a smothering, choking sensation, so the words came to mind naturally. 

"Mr. Parker is in recovery." The words weren't as clipped as they would have been if it was still serious, so Tony relaxed in increments. They walked through the halls, passing empty rooms and closed doors, before they stopped at one.

"Can I...?" Tony stepped forward, gesturing at the door. The medic nodded and Tony rested his hand on the door.

 

Peter was behind that door. Recovering.

 _Alive_.

He breathed a sigh of relief, letting the vice gripping his lungs loosen.

 

He stepped into the room.

 

It was quiet, and the monitors tracking Peter's slightly faster than average heart rate were the only sound in the room. Light poured in through the windows looking out of the compound's fields. Peter's bed rested against against the far wall, facing out towards the glass, and the kid could have looked peacefully asleep if it weren't for the brace surrounding his left arm and the stitches in his forehead. The saliva in his mouth suddenly felt too thick, like he'd choke on it.

 

This was his fault. 

 

"It took a while, mostly due to the fact that his healing factor allowed us to play it safer, but we got all the shrapnel out of him without causing any more damage."

Tony swallowed thickly and looked at the doctor's face, "And the damage was?"

"The piece of shrapnel that was lodged in his abdomen acted like a plug," Tony flinched, "It stopped the perforation of his small intestine from getting any worse. In fact, by the time we had gotten to it, he had started to heal around the metal. It's quite the healing factor he's got there." Tony nodded — Peter's rapid healing could give Cap's a run for its money quite easily. The kid almost always got battered on his nightly patrols, yet he never missed school the next morning, so it had to be. 

Another reason that he was proud of the kid — he never let his duty get in the way of his life, or vice versa. 

Tony looked over Peter again, injuries standing out sharply now Peter wasn't at risk of dying in his arms, "Why is his arm braced?"

"We don't usually work with enhanced individuals with healing factors, mostly because they have one. But we assume it's because his body was so focused on fixing his internal injuries that the external ones became less of a priority. The shrapnel in his arm caused a displaced fracture of his ulna and radius; the bones were both broken and they both needed to be reset. We've put them back in place and he's healing quickly, the brace is pretty much a formality, just to make sure the bones aren't disturbed." Tony nodded, exhausted. He had been so close to losing Peter... It was a miracle that he even found the kid in the first place. He hadn't forgotten just how close he was to losing his kid, his responsibility.

"So he's okay now?"

"He's recovering. We'll be able to remove the brace tomorrow, and the stitches in his right leg can be removed in a few days' time. We're going to give him a course of antibiotics to take just to be on the safe side, as we don't know how his body will react to infections and if he can fight them off on his own right now." The medic told him and he sighed. The kid was gonna be in a world of pain when the painkillers wore off. Hell,  _he_ was gonna be in a world of pain when May got to him. Tony walked over to Peter's bedside and took a seat, watching the kid's relaxed inhales and exhales.

At least now Peter wasn't in as much obvious pain as he was a few hours ago.

Tony cleared his throat and looked at the medic, "Thank you. For saving him. I- I don't know what I would have done if I had lost him." And it was true. He'd only known the kid for the short span of a few months, but he had already wormed under Tony's skin, settling in close to his heart. Peter had definitely become his kid in Tony's eyes. The medic looked at him and gave a half-smile before they walked out of the room, leaving Tony alone with the sounds of Peter's breathing and the monitor beeping. 

Tony checked up on the progress of May's travelling — she had just been picked up, apparently — and was messaging Happy about the progress on the cleanup of both the plane and Toomes when he noticed the quiet shifting coming from Peter's bed. Tony stood, hopeful and concerned, and stood at the end of Peter's bed.

 

A few minutes later, Peter cracked open a dazed eye. It was another minute or two before the kid woke up enough to look at Tony. 

There was a few seconds of thought before Peter spoke, "Mr. Stark?" His voice was quiet and slurred, which was the first indicator of how strong the drugs in Peter's system were. Peter blinked several times, visibly trying to clear the fog from his mind. Tony laughed quietly.

"Yeah, kid, it's me." Tony observed Peter closely, watching how he squinted against the light and struggled to lift a bandaged hand to his eyes, probably because his senses are always too-

"Shit, the lights are too bright, aren't they?" Peter made a noise in agreement and Tony walked to the wall, turning off the lights. The darkness was disorienting and Tony nearly fell over twice on the way back to his chair, but the pleased noise Peter let out made the embarrassment worth it. 

Tony fell into his chair, "You okay now?"  

Peter hummed from the bed. Tony couldn't see it, but he could hear the shifting from the hospital bed as Peter moved his injured limbs, the sudden halts in the noises indicating when the pain flared up. His heart ached when small whines were let slip — Peter was _definitely_ still too high to notice he was making said noises — but he didn't stop the kid from checking his injuries over. 

His throat tightened when he realised this was probably an ingrained response after a night of patrolling the streets of New York; checking himself over before forcing himself to school.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark." Peter mumbled from the bed and Tony looked up sharply. Why would Peter _thank_ him? It was Tony's fault he was so hurt-

"s'not your fault, Mr. Stark. I went af'er Toomes." Tony blinked, cleared his throat and tried his best to cast an incredulous look over the bedridden Spider-Man. Obviously Peter was better at perceiving and reading people than Tony gave credit for. Tony hummed, keeping his head down.

"How do you feel, then?"

"Pretty sure I can still- still _feel_ the building on me. I  _ache_ everywhere." Peter giggled a little, breaking off into the occasional snort, while Tony was left to stare in Peter's general direction.

"Yeah, as soon as those drugs are out of your system we're talking, because you didn't tell me about this building being _dropped_ on your ass."

"Don't swear," Peter drunkenly mumbled, and Tony was thrown back to another mockingly-reprimanding voice, before everything went to hell, "I'm too young to hear that." Then he dissolved into giggles again, and Tony had to check when May would arrive, because a high Peter was a decidedly _testing_ Peter. Seriously. A small part of him was still worried about Peter straining his injuries, but given his healing factor and how the kid's laughter echoed in the room, it was drowned out. It was nice to hear something from the kid that wasn't a noise of pain or stuttered speech, even if it was induced by drugs. 

 

By Tony's failure.

  

"Alright, kid, we'll see if you're laughing in fifteen minutes when your metabolism is through all those drugs in you." Tony grumbled. Peter wouldn't be nearly as talkative in a few minutes time, so he wouldn't ruin it now. Tony kept the chatter light and bright for another nearly ten minutes, making sure the kid didn't overtax himself, before Peter's rambling tapered off, dissolving into a tight, airy groan. Tony handed him the cup of water that had been left resting on his bedside table.

"You with me now, kid?" He received a groan in affirmative, and Tony sighed. He wished the kid could have had more time to be pain-free before he came back down, but the rational part of his brain told him that it was natural, it was going to happen at some point. 

"Yeah, I'm- I'm back. Those were some pretty strong painkillers, heh. Remind me to never do- _that_ ever again." Peter whispered to Tony. Words couldn't describe the complete unwinding of tension Tony felt across his body as Peter spoke; hearing the kid's delirious mutterings and ramblings was arguably worse than the silence.

"Gladly. That really- you scared me back there, kid. I thought I was gonna lose you." And, god, he  _did_. At some point after the Accords, Tony started caring about Peter, and if he lost Peter now, it would destroy him. The knowledge that Peter got so hurt trying to help Tony sat uncomfortably in his gut, like he had swallowed a weight.

"I'm not that easy to get rid of, Mr. Stark. And you can turn the lights on now. If you want to, I mean." Peter mumbled, settling back into his bed and closing his eyes. 

Tony rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh, "You're making a slave of me, Mr. Parker. My knees can't take this stress." He turned the lights on anyways.

 

Peter had one arm draped over his eyes and was reclining in his bed, loose-fitting scrubs riding up his arms to reveal a few scratches and bruises, already well on their way to healing. His hair was endearingly ruffled, like he had just stepped out of bed — the paranoia that had settled into the back of his head at seeing Peter came back briefly whispering words about Tony's failure and  _it's your fault he's here, you did this to him_. He shook his head, letting the kid slowly adjust to the artificial brightness of his surroundings and learn his location. All in all, it was quiet for a room holding a superhero known for being talkative and a man who loved nothing more than to talk.

 

And then May burst into the room.

 

And it would have been fair to say that Tony shat himself.

 

Peter lifted his arm from over his eyes and his expression lit up, "May!" The sudden loudness at which he spoke made his voice croaky, but the joy in her name was conveyed nonetheless. 

"Oh- Peter, you silly- You need to be more careful, look at you!" May had ran over to Peter's bedside instantly, dropping her bag at the door in favour of running her hands over her nephew's arms and face, almost as if reassuring herself that he was okay. Peter made a few noises in protest of the sudden onslaught of contact, but soon made a face that screamed  _I have resigned to my fate_ and sunk further into the bed sheets. May let a few more anguished noises out of her throat before she whirled around to face Tony, a blazing fire in her eyes.

"What happened to him?" A calm that hid a storm; the tone of her voice was frankly terrifyingly reminiscent of Pepper, so the false story he constructed came pouring out. May looked incredulous when he started, but some of the horror in his voice from Peter's injuries — he left out the whole _shrapnel_ thing and the terrifying nature of how close the kid was to dying — must have leaked through at some point in his explanation, because when he was done she was casting a searching look over him. By the time he had stopped speaking, the sun had descended below the hills and darkness was reaching throughout the green outside.

"You're telling me that a box of your tech fell off onto Peter, and that's why this," She waved her hand at Peter's general location, "happened?" Tony could see the kid slowly angling himself over the edge of the bed to meet his eyes, a question in the contact.  _What did you say happened?_

"Well it was more of a crate than a box, but yes. There were a lot of crates that had to be moved around in here because we've been moving the Avengers' gear from Stark Tower to here and Peter volunteered to help move the lighter ones around, and pulling one of the boxes out shifted another one over the edge." He kept any traces of  _anything_ out of his voice. May looked at him again before she sighed, running a hand through Peter's hair. 

"Please be more careful next time, Peter. Okay? Do you know how worried I was, hearing you had an accident and knowing I couldn't be here for you more quickly?" Tony watched Peter's face shift from contemplative to guilty. 

"Sorry, May. I didn't mean to- I didn't want to stress you out."

"It's- It's fine, Peter. I was just scared."

There was a bit more quiet before Peter spoke up again, "I larb you, May." And guessing from the way May gasped and her eyes lit up, Tony was missing something pretty obvious. Maybe an inside joke?

"I larb you too, Peter." She mumbled, gently wrapping her arms around her nephew in a loving hug. Tony coughed lightly and turned away, the show of familial affection hitting just a little too close to home. May kept on coddling Peter, nearly smothering the kid in affection, oblivious to Tony's consternation. 

May turned around to face him, establishing (awkward) eye contact, "Mr. Stark?"

"Uh, yes, Mrs. Parker?" Tony made a face, "Can I call you May? I feel like a kid calling you Mrs. Parker and I'm nearly twice your age, it's weirding me out." 

"You can call me May. And a small issue: I have work tomorrow, and right now I'm just a bit too far away to arrive there on time for my shift."

"I can give you another lift back?" It was more a question that a statement; Tony could see in May's expression that she didn't really want to leave Peter, but he could also see her dedication to getting to work and being able to provide for herself and Peter. He had to check through FRIDAY that the person who drove May up in the first place was still available (they were) and resolved to pay them a bonus for driving around so late and so far, before asking the car back to the front of the compound.

"I'll take you up on that offer. Peter, take care of yourself, okay? I'll phone your school and tell them you're sick or something." Then, to Tony, "I want him back as soon as he's fixed, in one piece. Got it?"

Tony flashed a quick salute, "Yes, ma'am." To which May scoffed lightheartedly. She perked up when she heard the car pull up out front, brushing away stray brown hair and planting a kiss on Peter's forehead, looking at the sleepy kid lovingly before shuffling towards the door. 

"Goodnight, Peter." She called, a reluctant expression on her face. A dopey grin came to Peter's face as he waved at her from the bed.

"G'night Aunt May!" He called back, just slightly too loud for Tony's sensitive hearing, before May turned out of the room and left for home again.

 

* * *

 

Almost immediately after May left, Peter was sinking back into the mattress again, and the bags under the kid's eyes became way too pronounced for Tony's liking. Every small scratch, bruise and patch of gauze was becoming unnervingly stark to his tired eyes, and he massaged his temple with his hands. That had been way too goddamn close, he had been _way_ too close to failing Peter as a mentor. What was he  _thinking_ , taking away the suit like that? It was clear from the beginning that Peter wouldn't let any potential threats roam the streets if it was in his power to stop them, so why did Tony believe that Toomes would be any different? He should have known better than to take the suit away, at least then Peter would have had more protection against the shrapnel — he flinched again, the kid could have wound up just like him or _worse_ because of Tony's interference — than just a onesie. Tony looked up to Peter again.

"You said- earlier on, you said you could still feel the building on you." The words broke the silence in the room, the comfortable nature of their camaraderie replaced by a sudden heavy tension.

"Ah- Did I say that? I did, didn't I? Oh, gosh- Um, before the plane, I chased Toomes into an empty warehouse and, um, confronted him? And he, he used his wings to break the supports keeping the building upright. And I- And I didn't realise what he was doing until after he had done it, so I guess it's on me for breaking the place, huh?" Peter laughed a little bit, releasing two sharp coughs before continuing, " It fell on me. It took a while, but I managed to lift it off of me, so it's all good."

 

The kid wasn't making eye contact. As if he was embarrassed that he got crushed by a building, or thought Tony would be mad at him for it. Then Tony blinked, readjusted himself and looked a little closer at Peter's hand as it awkwardly ran through his hair.

 

It was shaking. 

 

Of course the kid wasn't going to be particularly happy recounting such a terrifying event. Hell, Tony could only imagine the thoughts that were running through Peter's head when he was stuck. 

Swallowing his own awkwardness, Tony spoke up again, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Um, not really. Sorry." And the kid's absolute rejection of any help was the first sign to Tony that the building incident had really shaken Peter up more than he would admit out loud.

"C'mon, kid. Talking about it will help you — trust me, I'd know." It was difficult to keep the noises of frustration in. He'd never been a particularly patient person in general, but the  _I'm in shock and I refuse to acknowledge this fact_ look on Peter's face strengthened his resolve. His mistake put the kid in hospital, the least he could do was offer himself in support.

"Oh- _Fine_. It was really dark and I hated it, because even with my senses being enhanced I couldn't see a thing. It was pretty terrifying under all that cement and metal. I could hardly breathe, the dust was so thick. I thought I was gonna choke to death and nobody would find me." Tony's throat closed. The kid thought he was going to die under a building, alone in the dark and unable to breathe? It hurt to think about. It was even worse when images of the scenario Peter oh-so-helpfully worded flooded his mind. Images of Peter choking under tonnes of rubble, unable to get out-

"Well you're safe now, okay? Your healing factor's sticking you back together and you stopped Toomes from stealing my stuff and selling it onto the streets. You did good, kid." Peter only hummed in response, as if he didn't believe him. Tony walked over to Peter and ruffled the kid's hair, ignoring the indignant squawk from the boy in favour of revelling in the knowledge that he was alive and safe. 

 

He was about to turn tail and head back to his room when Peter called out to him, "Stay?"

Tony whirled around, confused expression vanishing at the somewhat shaken and unsure look on the kid's face. He looked entirely too young and vulnerable like this, fearful of being left alone in the dark like he was under the building, so Tony walked back over to his chair and collapsed into it. Peter's hand shakily moved to rest on Tony's forearm, like the kid was afraid he would disappear. Tony gave Peter a reassuring smile.

"Sure thing, kid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asdfghjkl thank you to everyone who read the first chapter and came back for more!! The response to this was so amazing it taped the shards of my will to live back together, threw a rope into the pit of depression to rescue me and watered my crops.
> 
> Now I'm just being dramatic. On a different note, if I do another Homecoming-based fic, Peter's new phone is gonna be his way of showing he actually got the Stark 'internship'.
> 
> And another thing!! The quote, 'They say there's a correlation between generosity and guilt' is from Civil War, after Tony establishes the 'inaugural September Foundation grant' and is confronted by the mom of the kid killed in Sokovia. Just thought I'd put it in there because it worked so well ;)
> 
> Tell me how I did in the comments down below, if you want!! Hope y'all have a nice day (or night)!! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burning. The world was aflame, crackling and deafening to his overwhelmed senses. He gathered himself and stood up, brushing sand from his suit.
> 
> He had to find Toomes.
> 
> Or, chapter 1 told by Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to do this since I put chapter 1 up. If you thought it was angsty from Tony's point of view, just you wait until you read a delirious, injured and later very high Peter Parker's opinion on the matter.
> 
> Or, I couldn't get enough of writing for the MCU and wanted another instalment for this fic. I will do chapter 2 later on, but this got... a lot longer than I originally anticipated ><

He only had a few seconds to watch as the tan beaches of Coney Island encroached on his vision rapidly, eyes widened as he hurtled towards the ground at speeds that were definitely unsafe for anyone, even an enhanced individual like him. Then those few seconds passed, and the plane smashed into the ground, a cacophony of groaning and piercing screeches meeting his ears as metal plating warped, split and came apart at the seams under the momentum of the plane.

 

Peter was thrown from his position onto the surface of Coney Island — at least he managed to put the plane down, Mr. Stark wouldn't be _too_ mad —, shoulders and sides screaming in agony whenever they met the ground in the bumpy trip until he came to a forceful stop at the back of something very cold, and very hard. The wind was punched out of him when his back impacted the— whatever it was. He stayed where he was, refusing to so much as move any of his limbs for fear of the nerve response he would receive, limp as a rag doll and limbs eagle-spread.

 

He could hear the flames crackling.

He groaned and coughed sharply. That hurt like _hell_ . His ears were ringing and his head screeched like a siren, pounding uncomfortably. His thoughts were muddled, sluggish, and when sound came to his ears it was like it was through water. And his Spidey-Sense was _screaming_ . The sixth sense in the back of his head was wailing so loudly that he couldn't hear much else until it faded down into background noise. _Still in danger, you need to run, you have to go now now now-_

 

Peter opened his eyes — since when had he closed them? — and gasped loudly, relishing in the feeling of oxygen reaching his winded lungs. He lay there for a few minutes, wheezing in a desperate attempt to regain his lost breath and ignoring how being tossed off of a moving plane onto the ground made the cuts and bruises he already had feel so much worse. Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he shuddered out harsh breaths.

 

He was gonna be feeling this one for weeks; the aches were already settling deep and weary into his bones. May was gonna _kill_ him.

 

Slowly, Peter forced his legs and arms to move, pushing himself upright to lean against — a crate? He blinked. _Right_ , the explosion. Toomes. He had to- He had to stop Toomes. His muscles felt like they had been peeled down to nothing, raw and aching, but he forced his legs under himself and shakily moved towards the source of the fire. His steps came slowly, and he wobbled around much more than he would like to have, but he kept going until his head cleared up and his thoughts got sharper again. He thanked every deity he knew that he had superhuman endurance and an even better healing factor, because he would have been a splat on a metaphorical windscreen without them.

Walking became easier the further he got. The air became smouldering and acrid, difficult to choke down, and embers kept dancing past him. It was pretty enchanting despite the wreckage on the ground, but Peter figured that was the likely-a-concussion thinking for him. Multiple times he was forced to clamber over Mr. Stark's tech to keep moving towards the centre of the debris, and every time he stumbled, trembling on his feet, but he forced himself to keep going. He had gotten this far, he wasn't about to fail Mr. Stark now. He'd already made the plane go down, he had to finish his mission before Toomes got away. Peter blinked a few times and wiped the water — was it raining? Rain would be nice — from his face, only to look down and to realise the 'water' was blood. His blood. Now that he thought about it, the pain in his face was a little too acute around the lip and cheek to just be a bruise. He stumbled again.

"Stupid concussion..." He staggered to a halt and looked up, head too heavy for his neck to hold proud. Peter blinked a few times and the watery mess that his eyes were relaying to his brain cleared up. He realised he was looking at Toomes, who was stood upright — a stark contrast to the weak, childish pose Peter had adopted to relieve the acute pain in his side —, wing suit menacingly reflecting the amber light of the fires. He could feel his lips moving, feel the vibrations in his throat that meant he was speaking, but his brain was too sluggish to make sense of what he was saying. Toomes was moving forward before he could force himself to react.

 

He tried to put up a decent fight, he really did. But his body just... wasn't responding to his brain, and he was on the floor within seconds. The mechanical, Vulture-like talons of the suit were on his chest, pushing down, squeezing the life out of him. He sputtered and choked under the weight, ribs groaning and shifting threateningly under the assault. The feeling of the talons digging into the tender flesh above his collarbone was excruciating — he could hardly hear himself yelling and crying from under the raucous _painpainpain_ that was burning him alive. His head hurt, his body hurt, his muscles hurt and he just wanted to give up, go to sleep and let someone else take over.

 

 _No._ He hadn't come this far, fought this much and strained himself this much to give up now, before a man who would hurt people, make it that somebody would have to come home to an empty house and one person less to care about. His fingers curled around the Vulture's talons, crushing the metal with strength he didn't know he still possessed, and lifted the offending contraption away from his body.

 

Whatever was in his ears muffled out a lot of sound again — it really was inconvenient, being able to hear things was nice — but he stared Toomes in the face in an attempt to decipher the slurred, unintelligible mess of noise. He stumbled as a particularly painful flare of fire arced up from his knee. Peter yelped as he stood upright and his recovering ribs protested loudly and painfully. Any other Avengers would have dealt with and dispatched Toomes by now; though he tried to not to feel discouraged, the knowledge that Mr. Stark could have done better than him and was probably regretting involving Peter in his life at all was painful.

 

He didn't even know why he cared so much about Mr. Stark's opinion on how he dealt with his enemies. Maybe it was because Tony acted like a mentor to him, guiding him through the nuances of superhero-ing. Maybe it was because Mr. Stark was the closest thing he'd had to a father figure since Uncle Ben died.

 

Peter shook his head to disperse those thoughts. He had to focus.

 

Then Toomes was starting to fly, sparks flying worryingly out of his wing suit, and the adrenaline that rushed through Peter cleared the fog again. He shot a web at Toomes' wings, tugging with all his might to stop the man from clearing more than a few meters off the ground.

 

The muscles in his arms were much too overtaxed from earlier on, from lifting the collapsed building off of himself, to do much more than keep Toomes at a steady height. When he spoke this time, he could hear the words, "I'm trying to save you!" God, that was _his_ voice? He sounded like his throat had been scrubbed raw with the sand he stood on. Toomes kept trying, and the sand was starting to give way from the strain Peter's rigid form was taking, and he could feel his shoulders starting to pull uncomfortably against their natural position in their sockets.

Sparks flooded from the wings, like a morbid fireworks show, and he was forced to shield his eyes.

 

He could only look on in horror when the wings erupted into flames and scorching hot fragments of metal.

 

* * *

 

The initial blast of the wings had thrown Peter back a few meters.

 

And if he thought the pain he was in before was bad, this was a whole new level of _agony_ . He wasn't in the flames but _god_ , he burned. None of his patrol nights gone wrong could even come close to the hellfires he rested in now. He couldn't feel his right leg at all, all he could feel in his left arm was hot, screeching _pain_ and his abdomen was decidedly sticky and kinda gross. _And_ he had landed on his back, effectively knocking the wind from his lungs _again_. At least when he patrolled, he could breathe afterwards.

 

Standing was harder than before. With his right leg about as useful as a melted stick of butter and his left leg massively overcompensating, limping back through the flames was torture. Every footstep sent agony ricocheting through his whole body.

But he couldn't let Toomes die. Sure, it would have been easier, and sure, he probably deserved it, but Liz- Liz didn't deserve to be told her father was dead, not if Peter could prevent that fate from coming to pass. He knew first hand the pain of losing a parent — if he could stop someone else from going through the same empty, meaningless hell, he would. Liz didn't deserve to find out her father was a psychopath and lose him in the same day.

 

So when he found Toomes, he used his functional right web shooter and made sure the webs binding the man were tight before dragging him back through the flames by the ankle.

 

Hey, he said the man didn't deserve to die, not the man didn't deserve to be extremely uncomfortable.

 

Peter kept trudging forward, _step drag, step drag, step drag, step_ until they were out of the flames and he could safely abandon Toomes to whoever would find him. The man's mouth was moving but Peter couldn't hear it, didn't really care for it. He dropped Toomes to the floor and kept walking.

It wasn't long before he had limped far enough that buildings were in sight and his web shooters became a viable method to which he could escape from prying eyes and medics. He hated medics; not because of what they did, but because if they took him in they’d _know_ . There was no way he had survived the plane crash _and_ the explosion, only to have his identity revealed by medics. Nope. He shot a web, dopey grin on his face when the web attached to a building. Or at least, it looked like it did. The world was starting to unfocus and lilt to the side; a kaleidoscopic mess to Peter's already enhanced senses.

 

The world swooped sideways and he was on the floor instantly, curling in on his side, burning and on fire, and _it hurt so bad_ -

 

He opened his teary eyes, an airy groan having escaped his lips. His energy to move was faded already, replaced with a bone-deep leaden sensation that weighed him down to the Earth. He wouldn't move, even if he could — his limbs weren't responding anymore and the sand was becoming more and more comfortable as he lay there. His breaths came as short, ragged pants as his previously numb right leg started tingling with the telltale ache of agony yet to come. He tensed, a fist clenched in the sand.

It took a few minutes for the pain to kick in full force. By this point, he was too spent to do so much as let the tears slowly roll down his face silently. His arm was on fire, his leg was on fire, his body was so, so _cold_ from whatever sticky thing from earlier had dried there and he just wanted to go to sleep and wake up somewhere safer.

 

Peter's eyes closed.

 

* * *

 

Coming back to was different this time. His usually-enhanced senses felt more dull than they had been before the spider bite; he hadn't realised how much he had adapted to his new, heightened senses until now, where it felt like a missing limb in its absence. Most of the sensation in his body had turned from fiery pain to sweet, relieving numbness. Offhand, he knew this was definitely a very, very bad thing. Peter couldn't quite find it in himself to care anymore.

 

Despite how thoroughly shot his senses were, Peter knew someone was next to him. The presence wasn't intrusive at all, if anything it was reassuring and emitted a sense of safety and protection from the world that he hadn't felt in years. It whispered to him in a voice Peter thought he had forgotten long ago, encouragements and warm words reaching his ears through the weird fog that stole his hearing earlier on — the logical part of his brain was telling him that it was a temporary aftereffect from being thrown from the plane; a natural response to a sudden and intolerable increase in sound. But Peter could hear- he could hear _him_. He fought to open his eyes.

 

And nearly cried when the blur in front of him cleared up, revealing his Uncle's face. Fuzzy and vague, but definitely Ben's face. How could he forget?

 

His eyes screwed shut and he turned away from the hallucination, ignoring the small, child like part of himself that just wanted to see his Uncle's face again. The presence didn't go away, though, so Peter eventually caved and turned back to the man-hallucination. His eyes prickled with the telltale burn of building tears that he wasn't strong enough to wipe away; instead the tears collected in the corners of his eyes before carving smooth tracks down the dirt on his face and his chest constricted tightly every time he turned to face his Uncle; the weight of his inaction making it hard to breathe.

 

Ben's expression was still fuzzy but warm and open. So much warmth, so much love that Peter just didn't deserve. It didn't matter if Uncle Ben was just a figment of his imagination or something like that, it didn't change the fact that Peter had _still failed him_ . It was _his_ fault that Ben died.

 

It was heart wrenching to see the face of the man Peter had failed so horribly, and the shredding pain in his abdomen screeched in protest as Peter tried to sit up in an attempt to reach the man, if only to convince himself that he was going crazy. He hadn't been able to reach Ben in time before...

 

He couldn't move, nor could he make sense of what hallucination-Ben was saying anymore. It all sounded muffled, like it was underwater. Maybe _he_ was underwater. He just really wanted a nap... nobody would mind, right? May could have some time off from worrying about him, and Mr. Stark wouldn't have Peter bothering him anymore. Everyone would be just fine if the world went on without Peter Parker. Nothing would change. Nobody would mind if he slept for a while... But then again, he couldn't just go to sleep while Uncle Ben was talking to him.

 

He yawned, ignoring the shooting pain as his lip split back open, "I'm takin' a nap, Uncle Ben." The fuzzy silhouette looked vaguely concerned, maybe even desperate for Peter to not go to sleep. Probably didn't want Peter to miss school again, the worry-wart.

“S’ok, Ben. M’jus’ goin’a sleep now. I’ll be up in the morn’n.” He really wished Ben could have shown up when he was less tired. He'd wanted more time with his Uncle ever since they lost him. Too late now, though.

The world faded to black again as Peter let himself fall into the awaiting emptiness.

 

* * *

 

Hands were on him.

 

Warm, calloused hands were at his neck, shaking his shoulders. He tried to talk, to tell the hands to stop touching him because it _hurt_ , but his body wasn't cooperating with him at all. He was being moved onto his back, the hands at his back hesitant and trembling finely, as if they were worried they would hurt him, and if he could have, he would have screamed and swore and cursed, because the white-hot, all consuming agonies that rose up were swallowing him whole.

 

The hands tapped his cheeks lightly. Maybe he overslept again...? He scrunched his face up and forced his eyelids to open. The world was swimming; it took more than a few minutes for Peter's eyes to focus enough that the person's face came into view.

"Mr. St'rk...?" There before Peter, in all his billionaire-slash-superhero glory, knelt Tony Stark himself. Why had Mr. Stark come out? He- He _had_ this…

The older man apparently wasn't particularly happy with Peter's response, if the harried, "Happy, med team, now!" was anything to go by. Peter tried to blink awake, to sit up so Mr. Stark didn't have any other causes to think Peter weak or ill-suited to be a superhero. And once again, his body wasn't having it, and his head fell back into the sand.

"Stay down, kid. you're- You're hurt pretty bad, moving will make it worse." Mr. Stark looked vaguely concerned as he looked down on where Peter was lying. It made him want to squirm; he didn't want anyone's pity, or sympathy. Especially not from someone who he looked up to.

A thought flickered into his head, "S'e ok?" Peter made a face — his tongue just wasn't obeying him. Syllables that he used to be able to enunciate perfectly now slipped off of his tongue loosely, rendering his speech garbled and difficult to decipher, even to enhanced ears. Mr. Stark merely hummed in response to the question. Peter was determined to force himself to speak properly, at least. 

"Toomes. The- the wing guy. He okay?"

“What- yes, he’s fine. You, however, are not, and you’re staying here until I can get you medevac or something.”

He had to physically restrain to keep himself from yawning his exhaustion, “Oh- oh. ‘Kay.” He closed his eyes, relaxing minutely at the relief the darkness gave his tired mind.

“No, no, no!" Peter jolted awake, heart pounding, "Kid, don’t go to sleep! That’s bad, don’t do it.” His mouth parted slightly in disbelief — he was just going to sleep! It wasn't that important! It wasn't like Tony had fought nearly as much or as hard as he had...

“S-sorry.” Peter mumbled. He stared at a nearby fire as the winds shoved and fuelled it, letting the crackling and the warm amber glow lull him into a light trance. He kept himself zoned out even when he heard another voice talking to Mr. Stark from a few meters away, favouring the blissful peace that closing his eyes brought. Having Mr. Stark with him was nice, reassuring even. For a moment there, he thought he was going to die alone on the beach. At least now, if anything happened to him, May would know immediately. There was some more indistinct chatter before Tony was talking to him again. 

“Kid? Can you hear me?”

Peter shifted his head backwards slightly, making eye-contact with Tony before nodding shakily.

“We’re gonna take you back to the New Avengers compound, okay? We’ll take care of you there. Happy will take care of Toomes.”

Peter hummed. A few seconds later, he felt the abrupt vibrations in the sand as Mr. Stark fell to his knees. The vibrations did, however, feel more compacted than they did before — maybe Mr. Stark had put on the suit? Did he even have it...?

“Kid-.” A pause, as if Tony was unsure of himself, “This is gonna hurt.”

“S’ok, Mr Stark. I’ll be fine.”

 

Then Tony's fingers were under him, and he was starting to regret his earlier compliance. The flames in his abdomen were quick to progress throughout his whole body, sending cold sweat and convulsive shivers wracking through his damaged frame and prying small noises from his lips. 

Peter's torso was lifted. The world became fuzzy and abstract; like the experience had shoved his consciousness out of his body, leaving only his barest instincts behind.

 

 _God_ , it was all too similar to fighting Toomes. He hurt everywhere, his Spidey-sense was screaming  _danger_ and he couldn't make sense of what was happening around him.  All he knew was that he was at risk, he was in danger and he had to move  _now_. 

Peter's arms flailed out to the sides and he tried to push away but his strength had failed him and he was so distantly panicked but couldn't move-

 

He didn't realise he was hyperventilating until the black dots had eaten away at his vision and he was falling away from reality.

 

 

His hearing returned slowly, almost painfully so. Peter could hear the telltale  _whoosh_ of the air moving around something that was travelling at high speeds (which was usually him, but he couldn't feel the strain of his arm muscles that came with his web-slinging).

Peter looked up slowly, head lolling backwards. The man holding him looked an awful lot like the person May said was his dad in their photographs, although something far away insisted the man had another name.

"...Dad...?"

The man didn't respond, didn't even look down. Peter knew he probably deserved it — the uncomfortably heavy sensation in his abdomen and the faint knowledge of  _I failed, I messed up big time, no wonder he took away the suit_ told him he was forgetting something important.

Peter let his eyes close again — the vertigo he felt from having them open wasn't worth it. But he could feel himself shivering violently.

 

His problem was solved when the uncomfortable surface of whatever he was resting on warmed up. Peter sighed and shifted closer into the warmth. 

"You awake down there, Spiderling?"

 

That voice. It's... familiar? Spiderling, Spiderling, _Spiderling_. Who called him that? Besides, it's _Spider-Man_... Not that hard to remember, really.

"You okay?" He'd spoken out loud? Weird. Maybe the guy holding him was a mind-reader.

"No... Feel like- D'I get hit by a truck?" His throat hurt. Like it got scrubbed raw with a grater. He was pretty sure he could taste his own blood.

"Just about." 

He didn't press the matter any further, instead yawning slowly. He was so  _tired_... And the world was sorta narrowing into a small tunnel of light. Everything else was fading out, which was weird, even for someone who swung through NYC in red and blue.

"M'kay. G'night."

“Shit. Peter, don’t fall asleep? If you fall asleep you won’t be able to see your Aunt.” Oh, May would _murder_ him. String him up for all to see, because he promised he would stop coming home with bruises from fights, both with Flash and criminals. He felt bruised. He ached like a bruise.

“May? I wanna- M’kay, Mr. St’rk.” Mr. Stark, _that's_ his name! He grinned slightly at his success. 

 

Keep awake for May. Keep awake for May. Keep awake for May. Keep awake-

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The type of vertigo briefly described in this chapter is called 'vascular vertigo' and it's dizziness caused by an issue with the blood supply to the ear / balance centre of the brain. I think blood loss in general would cause this, because y'know, blood loss makes you real dizzy! 
> 
> Chapter 2 will be out soon!! And I'll definitely write more MCU stuff anyways, because with Infinity War and generally having a lot of inspiration, the headcanons won't stop ヽ(ಠ_ಠ)ノ
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter, more to come soon! Leave a comment, tell me how I did!! :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm late but whatever lol

It was slow, coming back to. Fuzzy and confusing; hazy and clipped thoughts escaping his mind before he could reach them. It was like grasping for smoke, only to watch the wisps dance to escape his grip and fade away. So he stayed in the dark for a little longer, waiting for everything to become more tangible. More real.

 

After a long, long time, he remembered that he had hands. Fingers. It was difficult, getting them to move. After the first few failed attempts, he almost gave up. Then he felt the sheets drag slightly under his fingertips, and he tried again. This wasn’t waking up, god no. It was a sensation completely alien to just waking up. It was like his entire body was asleep, maybe even hibernating, and now it all had to come back but was still held down by the leaden weight of sleepiness. His fingers were tingling slightly as he slowly forced himself to bunch up the sheets in his fists and relax again.

 

With what felt like the effort needed to stop a bus, Peter opened an eye.

 

And closed it again immediately. From what he saw, _maybe_ he died…? Everything was bright white and painful on his eyes, and he thought he might prefer the darkness better. He couldn’t even lift his arm to shield himself, because that was leaden and unmoving too.

 

When he opened his eyes again, the world was still swimming and too-bright, but not painful enough to make his eyes water again. There was a silhouette stood at the foot of his bed (bed…? How did he get to a bed? Last thing he remembered was fire… fire and pain and something else), features all blurred out and unseeable. His first thought was _May_ , but whoever they were… something told him otherwise.

 

There was only one other person who would be there if he was as injured as he couldn’t feel (trust him, not feeling anything after a patrol means he’s probably off his head) his body being.

“Mr. Stark…?” His voice sounded foreign. Not his. It was too gravelly and scratchy and slurred to be him. He tried blinking a little harder to clear the fog over his eyes, but it didn’t do much- if anything, it was worse than before.

He heard a huff. “Yeah, kid, it’s me.”

 

Peter stayed quiet. He couldn’t quite recall what had led him to his current position. Heaven? Not so much, he was in a hospital. So he probably wasn’t dead, then. Or not yet.

 

He was distracted from his thinking by the stabbing pain in his eyes, where the lights were just too bright for senses that had only just woken up. He raised an arm — bandaged, oddly enough, he couldn’t feel them — to shield his eyes. It felt weird. He’s had the feeling before, after sleeping on a heavily bruised (maybe broken) arm after a patrol — tingling, but mostly numb. Maybe it was because he hadn’t prodded at the injuries yet, but…

“Shit, the lights are too bright, aren’t they?” It took a lot of effort to even make a quiet noise of agreement, because his head was so _fuzzy_ and what the hell happened-?

 

The- the Vulture guy. And the plane crash. The beach- the fires, the crates-! He got them all, right…? Toomes- Toomes had to be detained in police custody by now, right?

 

The building. He remembered the building surprisingly clearly. The choking dust clogging his lungs. The concrete pressing down onto his spine and trying to snap him in half. The- the panic, the lack of air, the-

 

The lights in the room went off, and the panic rose up into his chest. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t under the building, he was in the hospital room with Mr. Stark and Toomes was gone. So he could definitely calm down and stop freaking out.

 

Actually, once he got over the panic, the darkness was quite a relief on his eyes — they weren’t burning anymore. He let out a happier noise (why couldn’t he manage proper words yet?) and sunk back into his mattress. He hadn’t even noticed how tense he’d gotten.

“You okay now?” Mr. Stark’s voice was quieter than before. Well, he turned the lights off, he probably knew that his senses were grating on his headache-

 

Well, his not-quite headache. He knew he should have had a migraine by now, but he didn’t. So that meant the drugs keeping the pain from his injuries at bay were pretty serious, because regular ones wouldn’t even touch it. He’s fuzzy in the head. Like, his thoughts were all discombobulated and random; less clear.

 

But he had to check his injuries. It was dark now, Mr. Stark wouldn’t be able to see if he prodded a few places and made sure he was still intact. And he did. His arm was still painless, no longer numb, but definitely felt kinda off.

 

And his _side_. It just- It felt really, really weird. Like, in the sorta numbingly painful way. Peter couldn’t remember what happened, what was wrong, but it was scary and-

 

So he had to thank Mr. Stark for saving him, then. Because he would have died without him, undoubtedly.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark.” He could hear fabric shifting, presumably as Mr. Stark looked at him. Maybe he was feeling guilty. He shouldn’t do that. It was definitely Peter’s fault for going to take on the Vulture by himself.

"s'not your fault, Mr. Stark. I went af'er Toomes." Peter couldn’t see the expression on Mr. Stark’s face, but he could imagine it was one of disbelief. But he didn’t speak, though. Peter shifted awkwardly; the urge to laugh or do something else to alleviate the tension was crushing. In fact, when he thought about it, it seemed more funny. Maybe it was the drugs, but everything was far away and funny.

"How do you feel, then?" Mr. Stark’s voice sounded genuinely concerned, and it stopped Peter’s thoughts dead in their tracks. Why would he be worried? Peter knew the reason the plane went down is because of his interference, and he did what he did with the ferry, so… He was actually pretty confused as to why Mr. Stark hadn’t cut ties with him completely.

"Pretty sure I can still- still _feel_ the building on me. I _ache_ everywhere." Peter felt himself giggle a little, unable to stop the instinctual response for burying his traumas, while the rest of him was horrified at the fact he’d let that slip out. He’d been perfectly content to keep _that_ tidbit to himself forever.

"Yeah, as soon as those drugs are out of your system we're talking, because you didn't tell me about this building being _dropped_ on your ass." Mr. Stark’s voice went cold. Icy. Like the first, harshest winds of winter. He should really try to reassure Mr. Stark that he was fine, really, because-

"Don't swear," Peter mumbled, voice slurred like the drunken criminals he fights, and no, that’s _not_ how he wanted to be reassuring, "I'm too young to hear that." He couldn’t help fading back into laughter. It was the only way he could ignore the cold pressure at the back of his head, the remainders of fear leaking back into his head. He remembered Ben telling him to think of happy things when he was scared, and he was _terrified_. He could have died. His life could have been ended right there and then, and he wouldn’t have been able to stop it. He wouldn’t be alive. The thought was horrifying, even when he was as high as he was. Laughing- laughing just kept the pain at bay. Until he could find someplace to deal with what happened, he’d just have to laugh it off. Right?

"Alright, kid, we'll see if you're laughing in fifteen minutes when your metabolism is through all those drugs in you." Peter heard Mr. Stark utter, and he had a moment of realisation. The drugs would wear off soon, and he’d have to face what happened. He leaned backwards into his bed. Mr. Stark kept engaging him in light hearted conversations, asking about innocent things and generally doing a good job at keeping his mind off things. And it worked.

 

For about ten minutes. Peter became aware of throbbing in his side and arm and leg (he hadn’t been aware that his leg was hurt too), and it just kept getting worse from there. He made a noise; a keening groan, and tried pushing himself backwards through the bed to escape the discomfort. It just got worse. He was handed a cup of water. Peter sipped at it absently and forced his head through the pain in his body.

 

He didn’t like it. At all. Now he could feel them, he could remember what caused them. Getting slapped around by Toomes. The plane crash. The building… the fear.

"You with me now, kid?" Peter made a noise to say ‘yeah, I’m here’, but he suspected it came out as more of an ‘ouch’ sorta noise. He heard a sigh from Mr. Stark, and shrunk back into his mattress. He’d disappointed the man enough, and now- and now this.

"Yeah, I'm- I'm back. Those were some pretty strong painkillers, heh. Remind me to never do- _that_ ever again." Peter whispered to Tony. He ached everywhere; he felt if he made any noise greater than that he would end up crying or screaming from it. He heard another sigh, quieter and softer. He couldn’t tell what it meant, though. Peter closed his eyes slowly, and starting sorting through the mess of his head.

 

He never liked dissociating. But- he couldn’t burden Mr. Stark more, and he couldn’t tell May. He just had to- had to wait until he could find someone to talk to about it (or just wait for it to blow over). So he pushed the thoughts away from himself, leaving his head to drain out the bad.

 

And if he felt emptier than before, that was fine.

 

"Gladly.” The word shocked him out of his shell. “That really- you scared me back there, kid. I thought I was gonna lose you." If he’d been in complete control of his head, he would definitely have been surprised by the admission. Actually, he was pretty honoured Mr. Stark even cared about him.

"I'm not that easy to get rid of, Mr. Stark. And you can turn the lights on now. If you want to, I mean." Peter settled back again into his bed, less tense than before, and prepared himself for the onslaught that is light.

"You're making a slave of me, Mr. Parker. My knees can't take this stress." Peter huffed, and recoiled when the lights come back on. He dragged his arm over his eyes as to prevent himself from being blinded. It was too bright, this was a bad move-

 

His senses caught on to something approaching. Fast. He tensed-

 

Someone burst into the room. Peter lifted his arm from his eyes, and saw-

 

"May!" He croaked. May’s expression shifted from desperate to overjoyed, and hands were on his face, gently caressing him. He leaned into the touch.

"Oh- Peter, you silly- You need to be more careful, look at you!" Peter released a few noises (in good humour) as May ruffled his hair, ran her hands over bruises and bandages and generally just- made sure he was alive. But it still hurt to hear the sad noises May kept making, the way tears were filling up her eyes, the way she looked at him like he’d disappear-

 

Oh. Ben.

 

_Oh._

 

He couldn’t see the expression on May’s face, but he knew it was the murder expression.

"What happened to him?" Yeah, Peter wanted to know the cover story, too. So he kept quiet as Mr. Stark spoke (and felt kinda awkward at how Mr. Stark sounded nearly bothered by his injuries), and didn’t speak up. He just… stayed still.

"You're telling me that a box of your tech fell off onto Peter, and that's why this," She waved vaguely at Peter. "happened?"

"Well it was more of a crate than a box, but yes. There were a lot of crates that had to be moved around in here because we've been moving the Avengers' gear from Stark Tower to here and Peter volunteered to help move the lighter ones around, and pulling one of the boxes out shifted another one over the edge." He supposed the excuse was viable. Better than anything he could have made. May leaned back over to him and planted a light kiss on his forehead.

"Please be more careful next time, Peter. Okay? Do you know how worried I was, hearing you had an accident and knowing I couldn't be here for you more quickly?" Oh, god, he didn’t even think of May when he went to fight Toomes. He didn’t think- he-

"Sorry, May. I didn't mean to- I didn't want to stress you out." His voice turned teary halfway through, and May hugged him again.

"It's- It's fine, Peter. I was just scared."

"I larb you, May." She gasped, and Peter saw tears in her eyes again.

"I larb you too, Peter." The hug was a kind of reassuring he hasn’t felt in a while; like grasping at driftwood to stop himself from drowning. He felt like he could breathe, now. He just- relaxed into the contact and let himself drift.

"Mr. Stark?"

"Uh, yes, Mrs. Parker? Can I call you May? I feel like a kid calling you Mrs. Parker and I'm nearly twice your age, it's weirding me out."

"You can call me May. And a small issue: I have work tomorrow, and right now I'm just a bit too far away to arrive there on time for my shift."

"I can give you another lift back?"

"I'll take you up on that offer. Peter, take care of yourself, okay? I'll phone your school and tell them you're sick or something. I want him back as soon as he's fixed, in one piece. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am." Peter only opened his eyes again when he felt May’s hand gently brushing away stray hair and planting a kiss on his forehead. He vaguely remembered his mom doing the same when he was smaller. It’s comforting.

"Goodnight, Peter." She didn’t want to leave, and Peter didn’t really want her to go either. But she needed to go to work so they could eat. And not get evicted.

"G'night Aunt May!" He said back, and waved his good arm. His chest ached, both from the healing shrapnel wound and in the sadness-way. She left, and suddenly he was alone again. Not in the literal sense, but… he missed May.

 

He sunk into the mattress, suddenly drained. He was _exhausted_. But Mr. Stark… Mr. Stark. He looked positively ancient, like everything he’d ever known was weighing him down all at once.

"You said- earlier on, you said you could still feel the building on you." Oh, god. The one thing he didn’t want asked. Peter fidgeted awkwardly.

"Ah- Did I say that? I did, didn't I? Oh, gosh- Um, before the plane, I chased Toomes into an empty warehouse and, um, confronted him? And he, he used his wings to break the supports keeping the building upright. And I- And I didn't realise what he was doing until after he had done it, so I guess it's on me for breaking the place, huh?" Mr. Stark looked horrified, "It fell on me. It took a while, but I managed to lift it off of me, so it's all good."

He couldn’t stop shaking. His breaths were trembling, halting, and he couldn’t stop them. He didn’t want to talk about it. He- he was _scared_ , and he was _scared_ for a reason because Toomes nearly _killed_ him and really, he didn’t want to die.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Peter looked up, then faced the foot of his bed.

"Um, not really. Sorry."

"C'mon, kid. Talking about it will help you — trust me, I'd know." No. He didn’t want to talk about it. If he spoke about it, it was real, and he didn’t want it to be real.

"Oh- _Fine_. It was really dark and I hated it, because even with my senses being enhanced I couldn't see a thing. It was pretty terrifying under all that cement and metal. I could hardly breathe, the dust was so thick. I thought I was gonna choke to death and nobody would find me." He sucked in each breath as soon as the last is out, because he remembered the pain, the fear, the panic, and he nearly died alone under there.

"Well you're safe now, okay? Your healing factor's sticking you back together and you stopped Toomes from stealing my stuff and selling it onto the streets. You did good, kid." He hummed. He didn’t believe it, not for a second. If he did good, the plane wouldn’t have crashed at all.

 

But he still panicked when Mr. Stark turned to leave.

"Stay?"

 

He doesn’t want to be alone again.

 

"Sure thing, kid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me finishing all my empty series' before doing my major wips

**Author's Note:**

> This is a taster for the MCU fandom, if you will. It's a anti-writer's block project and a character voice test, so tell me how I did? 
> 
> I really hope I haven't butchered anything.
> 
> NOTE: 10|04|18  
> I'm working on more! It's Peter's perspective of this whole incident! It'll be out in a few days <3


End file.
